


where you go to rest your bones

by booksandteaandallthingslovely



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Slow Build, your stock-standard 'Bucky returns after TWS' fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:55:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1609208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksandteaandallthingslovely/pseuds/booksandteaandallthingslovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three weeks since Washington, three weeks since pieces of helicarrier rained down on the city below and Steve fell, fell, fell into the Potomac, the name Bucky on his lips like a prayer. </p><p>It’s been three weeks since someone hauled him up out of the cold water, and he woke coughing and spluttering, bleeding and bruised on the shore, alone. </p><p>Three weeks of digging up information, following leads, searching for the man he had once called his best friend, no, still called his best friend.</p><p>And here he is in front of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where you go to rest your bones

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> So this is perhaps the third fanfiction i've ever read, and it's only been edited by me so forgive any mistakes. Hope you enjoy!! Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!  
> I'm at eugvneroe.tumblr.com if you want to say hi :)

The Winter Soldier is there.

 

The Winter Soldier is _in his apartment._

 

The Winter Soldier is in his apartment and oh God he should probably be slightly more worried about this but all Steve feels is a mixture of anxiety and joy that catches in his throat and allows only one word out.

 

“ _Bucky_ ,” it’s quiet, but the man in front of him hears. 

 

“Who the hell is Bucky,” and if Steve thought his voice was quiet, then Bucky’s is a mere breath and he knows those words, heard them on the bridge, but this time there’s something... _fragile_ about them. There’s a kind of give in them, it’s not all harsh confusion like the first time, like maybe this man actually wants to _know._ The night air is still and calm, and the moonlight paints everything in it’s cold, silver light. 

 

Steve let’s out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. 

 

\\\

 

When the initial shock has worn off, Steve takes stock of the situation. 

 

It’s been three weeks since Washington, three weeks since pieces of helicarrier rained down on the city below and Steve fell, fell, fell into the Potomac, the name _Bucky_ on his lips like a prayer. 

 

It’s been three weeks since someone hauled him up out of the cold water, and he woke coughing and spluttering, bleeding and bruised on the shore, alone. 

 

Three weeks of digging up information, following leads, searching for the man he had once called his best friend, no, _still_ called his best friend.

 

And here he is in front of him.

 

Bucky looks ragged, slightly feral. His eyes dart around the room, cataloguing exits and finding impromptu weapons. He wears a tattered hoodie and a glove on his left hand, hiding the shining metal beneath. Most of the black war paint from around his eyes is gone, replaced now with dark circles from exhaustion. The Soldier shifts and Steve realises he’s been staring. 

 

“I have- I have some spare clothes if you want them. Do you want a shower? Bathroom’s just in here. I can make some food, if you want?” Steve knows he’s babbling, but anything just to cover the silence he can feel growing, choking. Anything to keep Bucky here, in his living room. He moves into his bedroom, towards the bathroom, but stops when he realises Bucky isn’t following. Steve turns and reenters the living room, somehow knowing what he’s going to find.

 

But knowing doesn’t make it any easier, and so Steve just stares at the empty room, the cold night air making the ache in his throat that much worse. 

 

 

 

\\\

 

Steve wakes up the next night to the same noise that woke him up the previous night. The lightest thump on the wooden floor of his living room, barely there. He knows, he’s seen the file after all, that if the Soldier hadn’t wanted to be heard, he wouldn’t have been. If he wanted to murder Steve in his sleep, then Steve wouldn’t know it until he felt icy fingers wrap around his throat, or cold steel press against his jugular. 

 

But he doesn’t feel any of this, and so he rises from bed, determined to get it right this time. 

 

He pads through the hallway, his feet making a light tapping noise to alert Bucky to his position. He won’t spook him, not this time. Tonight is not a guarantee that every time Bucky leaves, he’ll come back again. 

 

Bucky’s standing there, same as before, and this time Steve says nothing. Lets the silence, as suffocating as it feels, crawl into the space between them. The room feels like it’s made of glass, one wrong move and Steve’s world shatters. 

 

This time, it is Bucky who speaks first.

 

“I saw- I saw in the museum...” He trails off, frowning. His mind is full of screaming noise and he struggles to sort it out, to make the words he needs appear out of the onslaught. “He had my face.”

 

Steve takes a risk. One breath in, one out, then-

 

“That’s because that man is you. You are James Buchanan Barnes.” _You are Bucky, you are my best friend._ He leaves this unsaid, however, and speaks slowly, letting the words settle in. 

 

The silence blankets them once more. Bucky sways. He looks exhausted, he looks like hell, and Steve’s heart hurts looking at how _broken_ Bucky looks. His shoulders have hunched over, and the circles under his eyes grown impossibly darker. 

 

“And you... you were my mission. But I knew you.” He whispers, voice hoarse. “I _knew you_.” He takes a step forward but stumbles and falls. Steve catches him, and Bucky looks up at him, eyes confused and scared and hurt and _sad,_ so sad.

 

And then he passes out. 

 

\\\

 

Steve doesn’t know what to do, so he calls the one person he thinks might.

 

Nat picks up on the first ring, despite it being 2 am in the morning.

 

“Cap?” Her voice sounds croaky, like she’s just woken up.

 

Steve looks over to the couch where Bucky lies, sleeping and covered in a spare blanket.

“He’s here.” 

 

“Give me until morning,” she says, and hangs up.

 

\\\

 

Natasha’s there the next morning, and if she’s been travelling all night then she hides it damn well. Steve wonders just where she was when she got his call. 

 

She’s dressed in dark jeans and a leather jacket that covers the gun in her hip holster, looking perfectly composed. Short as she is, her glare is formidable as she stands in the doorway, before marching in. Nat takes one glance at the couch before she grabs Steve by his shirt and drags him into the semi-privacy of the kitchen.

 

“ _Steve_ ,” She hisses, “You have to take him in. It’s not safe having him here.” 

 

“But I think he’s in there, Nat. I think Bucky’s in there somewhere and I think some of HYDRA’s mind control has started to wear off. I can help him remember.” The hard line of her mouth softens at the sincerity in his gaze.

 

“I know you want to believe it, Rogers. And for your sake I want to believe it too. But there are still HYDRA agents operating out there. How do we know one of them hasn’t sent the Soldier to finish his mission?” Her eyes flick out to the living room, to the sleeping form on the couch.

 

“Come on, Nat. He looks like hell. He wouldn’t be in such bad shape if he was here to complete his mission.” 

 

“What if he’s trying to gain your trust?”

 

“Nat, _please_.” She holds his gaze before breaking it with a sigh. If this is a war then she’s on the losing side. She’s not even sure her side ever had a chance of winning. 

 

“Those big blue eyes are an unfair advantage, Rogers.” She shakes her head, but there’s the ghost of a smirk on her lips, and he knows he’s won.

 

\\\

 

She leaves him with the promise to keep Fury off his back, and he doesn’t dare ask how she plans to do this. There are some things that are for Natasha to know, and for him to hopefully never find out. 

 

As she’s walking out the door she stops and turns back to him, looking serious. “You still think it was him who pulled you out of the Potomac?”

 

Steve doesn’t hesitate.

 

 “I know it was him.”

 

Natasha just nods slowly, smiling as she kisses him on the cheek, before she’s out the door, no trace of her to say she was even there.

 

Steve closes the door, turning towards the living room, and wonders if Natasha’s fears will prove true. 

 

He hopes not. With all his heart, he hopes not.

 

\\\

 

Bucky sleeps for the rest of the morning, and into the afternoon. He sleeps curled in on himself, and every now and then a quiet whimpering sound escapes him.

 

Steve wanders his apartment, picking up this and that and turning it over in his hands. He never strays too far from the living room, just in case. Though in case of what, he cannot say. 

 

He keeps trying to think of what to do, what he’s going to say when Bucky wakes, but his mind blanks and he’s left to his aimless wandering. He makes breakfast, then lunch, making extra servings of each that end up in the fridge. 

 

He’s glancing over his bookshelf when Bucky wakes, at around 3 pm, although he doesn’t notice until there’s the sharp press of a knife at his throat.

 

Steve lifts his hands as slowly as he can, a show of harmlessness, of submission, all the while cursing himself for not checking Bucky for weapons. 

 

“It’s okay, Bucky. No one’s going to hurt you here. It’s just me.” He makes his voice low and steady, as soothing as possible, and after a pause the knife is removed from his throat. Steve turns, keeping his hands up, and feels more like someone trying to keep a wild animal calm than a man talking to his friend. 

 

_Is he your friend?_ A little voice in the back of his head questions, an amalgamation of Natasha’s voice, and maybe his own. _Is he really still in there?_

 

Steve tamps the voice down. 

 

Bucky’s eyes flicker over his face, the non-recognition in them a stab to Steve’s stomach.

 

“You are Steve Rogers.” Bucky says, but it sounds rehearsed, factual, without familiarity. 

 

“Yes, I am. And you are James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky.” Some part of Steve hopes that the more he says Bucky’s name, the more he might realise that’s who he is. That name had triggered _something_ on the helicarrier, surely? Otherwise Steve would be floating down the river, lungs full of water and riddled with bullets. 

 

“The exhibit said that you and him were close.” Bucky narrows his eyes, as if the idea of camaraderie were foreign to him.

 

“We were. You were my best friend. Still are.” He hates hearing Bucky refer to himself as someone else. He wants Bucky to see, to understand, to _remember_ who he is. 

 

Suddenly Bucky turns hostile, baring his teeth. “Stop- Stop saying things like that.” He snarls. Steve suddenly finds himself pressed into a wall, Bucky’s metal arm horizontal across his collarbone, holding him there. “Stop talking like I’m him! I’m not, I’m not him.” He’s breathing hard, hot breath gusting across Steve’s face. 

 

“Yes, you are,” Steve says, gentle yet firm. 

 

“No!” He spits back. “I am- I am...” His voice breaks. “I...” He looks down, defeated. His arm falls from it’s bruising hold, and he moves back.

 

Once again, Steve takes a risk, following him and placing his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky looks up, eyes wild and hurt, but otherwise makes no move. Steve’s heart aches in his chest.

 

“You are my friend, and I am going to help you.”

 

\\\

 

Once Bucky’s calmed down enough, Steve takes one look at his friends state before deciding that before they start anything, Bucky needs a shower, and probably a shave. And definitely a haircut. 

 

The haircut, however, must wait, so Steve ushers his friend into the bathroom, finding a clean pair of track pants and a shirt for him to change into. He hesitates on the razor, suspecting it may not be the wisest idea to give the world’s deadliest assassin a sharp object, but eventually puts it on with the towel, clothing and toothbrush he hands Bucky. Bucky just accepts it, eyes blank and face unrevealing. 

 

Once Bucky closes the door, Steve suddenly realises that he’s probably very, _very_ hungry. Bucky looks like he’s probably been sleeping on the street, so Steve reheats the leftover lunch and waits for Bucky to emerge.

 

When he does, bare foot and in Steve’s clothing, Steve is struck by how vulnerable he looks, clean shaven and long, wet hair laying limp around his face. He swallows around the lump in his throat and offers Bucky a seat, sliding the food in front of him. Bucky hesitates before he begins to shovel it down in big mouthfuls. Steve just sits there and waits, heart beating like a hummingbird in his chest. 

 

When he finishes, Bucky just stares past the bowl, at the wood of the empty table. Steve pauses a moment, before gathering his courage and clearing his throat. Bucky glance up at him from underneath his eyelashes, hair falling onto his face. There’s a sudden sensation in Steve’s chest, and this time it has less to do with his empathy and more with just how damn _handsome_ Bucky looks in the afternoon light, long hair and all. 

 

“So...” He keeps his voice gentle, “What do you remember?”

 

Bucky looks down once more, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His mind is doing that white noise thing again, all full of voices and images that he just can’t seem to match up. “I remember the helicarrier. You- I knew you. You were my mission but I just couldn’t...” He trails off, a look of frustration drawing his eyebrows together. Steve can see his hands clenched by his side. 

 

“Something happened on that helicarrier, Bucky. You could have killed me, but you didn’t. You saved me.” He tries his best to give Bucky a reassuring smile but he doesn’t see. 

 

“You said that name. The one you’re always saying. You said it was my name.” Steve nods, waiting with baited breath. “And I saw... I was looking at you, but you were different, somehow. Smaller.” He looks to Steve, wanting confirmation. Steve can see how Bucky wants to know that what he saw was a memory and not just a hallucination, wants it almost desperately.

 

“Well I was smaller, before they put the serum in me. I was pretty sickly, too. Didn’t stop me from picking fights though.” He gives a rueful smile at the memories. Steve opens his mouth to continue, but then a miracle happens.

 

Quietly, like a revelation, Bucky whispers “I used to protect you.”

 

Bucky looks at him, the same look as before, searching for verification, and Steve can only grin and nod.

 

For the first time since first seeing Bucky on the bridge, Steve allows the small seed of hope in his chest to bloom.

 

\\\

 

It, whatever ‘it’ is, goes in starts and bursts for the next few weeks. Steve tells Bucky his story, their story, starting from the beginning. He tells until Bucky gets frustrated with his inability to remember this event or that detail, and shuts himself off. But somehow, to Steve’s constant relief, they start again the next day. 

 

Bucky begins to remember. Occasionally he’ll fill in details from whatever Steve’s talking about that day, otherwise he’ll simply say “I remember that.” Gradually, the pieces start to form something more than shards. It’s not a whole, not yet, but it’s not the fractured, broken pieces it once was. 

 

He remembers Brooklyn. Remembers a skinny kid with blonde hair and big, blue eyes who could never back away from a fight. He remembers the feeling, somewhere between affection and concern, that would tighten his chest every time he patched Steve up afterwards. He remembers the way his throat would tighten when Steve got sick, honest to God sick, during Winter. How he would feel like he might shake apart when he thought about losing Steve. 

 

He doesn’t mention this last part to Steve.

 

The war also comes back to him. There aren’t many good memories there. And once he remembers his time at the hands of Arnim Zola, remembers his fall, darker things start to creep into his mind. 

 

It doesn’t take long after for the nightmares to come prowling. 

 

\\\

 

It’s the middle of the night when Steve hears a noise from his bedroom. 

 

A few days after Bucky had settled in, Steve managed to coerce him into taking his bed, while he slept on an inflatable mattress in the study next door. Now, in the dark of the night, Steve softly steps out of the study, shield in hand, and pushes the door to his bedroom open.

 

A sigh of relief leaves him when he sees the room is empty save for Bucky, but his chest seizes up again when he notices how his friend tosses and turns in his sleep. A pained whimpering sound falls from Bucky’s lips, and Steve recognizes it to be the sound that woke him. 

 

He weighs up his options. Waking Bucky up by physical touch could cause him to become defensive, and the haze of the nightmare could mean he doesn’t recognize Steve before it’s too late. Another option is to just leave him and wait for him to wake, then see if there was anything he could do to help.

 

His choice is made for him when a kitchen knife flies past him, barely missing his head. Steve quickly dodges out of the doorway, back to the wall. He puts his shield down and calls out.

 

“Bucky?” He turns his head towards the door. “Bucky, it’s just me. It’s Steve. You’re safe.” He waits, the silence stretching out. Finally he deems it safe (or as safe as you could ever be with a brainwashed, afraid assassin) and steps back into Bucky’s field of view.

 

“Can I come-” The words lodge in his throat. Bucky is sitting on the bed, knees clutched to his chest and head ducked down, and he’s _shaking._ Shaking so goddamn hard and Steve just acts, walking forward to place a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

 

“Oh Buck,” he whispers. The words trigger something, and Bucky’s head snaps up and _are those tears?_ And then there are arms around Steve’s waist and Bucky’s clutching him like he’s the only fixed point in this turbulent, shifting world and he _is_ , Bucky thinks. He doesn’t know why this man doesn’t just give up on him, or lock him up or kill him but for some reason stays and keeps trying to save him, doesn’t understand the kindness in his touch when usually he is something to be shied away from, or to be hit and made to function or stop functioning because he is a _machine and machine’s do not feel this they do not feel they should not donotfeelbuthedoesohhedoes._

 

No more words are exchanged, and Steve lowers himself onto the bed and draws Bucky as close as he can, holds him as he shakes and sobs, the nostalgia of freezing Brooklyn nights calling vaguely at the back of his mind.

 

Eventually they fall asleep, Steve only after making sure Bucky’s breathing has evened and his face calmed, and when the morning light washes the room it finds a tangle of limbs and blankets, the two men curled as close as possible, sleeping soundly for the first time in what might quite possibly be years. 

 

From that night, though they don’t make any agreement out loud, neither side of the bed remains cold. 

 

\\\

 

They fall into an odd rhythm, a kind of dance, around one another.

 

Each morning, when the sun shines into Steve’s room, they rise and Steve makes coffee. They go for a run, together, then return to the apartment to while away the day. Steve even coaxes Bucky into letting him give him a haircut. At first he’s wary having scissors near his neck where he can’t see them, but eventually he settles and Steve is kind of proud of how it turns out. 

 

But that isn’t the dance. No, the dance is of a different kind.

 

It’s looks held longer than necessary when they think the other can’t see, it’s hands brushed across a shoulder in passing, sometimes even fingers that intertwine themselves when they sit on the couch, watching some movie or show. 

 

Bucky likes the last part the most. The sensation of Steve’s fingers in between his (his right hand, of course) feels right, grounds him. And for Steve, it’s irrefutable proof that _Bucky’s here. He’s alive and he’s getting better._

 

Each pretends that it’s less than it is, and for weeks nothing more happens. 

 

\\\

 

It’s late at night and Bucky has his head in Steve’s lap, finger’s combing through his hair, pretending to sleep as he contemplates how far he’s come. 

 

It’s been five months since he first appeared in Steve’s living room in the dark of night. He remembers a lot now, almost everything. There are some things that are patchy, and a lot of the older memories, like the ones from Brooklyn, seem like an image seen through fog, fuzzy and dream-like. 

 

He remembers Bucky Barnes from before the war, and knows he is not that man anymore, nor will he ever be again. That Bucky had to protect Steve, but now the roles are reversed (but only in some ways, because when it comes to a fight he damn well knows he can hold his own, and God does it plague him). That Bucky was self-assured and arrogant and terrified when his number got called for the draft. 

 

He may not be self-assured or arrogant anymore, but he supposed the terrified still fits (sometimes). 

 

The Bucky Barnes during the war was also another man. He grew hardened from what he saw, and his (first) time in Zola’s lab changed him even further. Steve didn’t need his help then. Steve had become a weapon, a beacon for all of America to follow into hell, and he cursed the world for it, for taking his small, frail Steve and turning him into something so capable of violence. It was only knowing that inside he was still the same good man from Brooklyn that kept Bucky from worrying too much. Just. 

 

Bucky Barnes is neither of those men. He cannot be either of them ever again, and he knows that, and Steve knows that. But he is no longer the Winter Soldier, and that is what matters. He is no more a machine, bloodied and calculating and deadly efficient. Cruel and unfeeling.

 

He knows he’s not unfeeling because of the way his stomach flips when he feels the brush of warm, dry lips against his temple, and though he may not be sure who he is now, he thinks maybe he can work it out. 

 

\\\

 

It’s Bucky who ends up being the one to start it. 

 

They’ve returned from their run and Steve’s leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping his water. The hush of morning quiets the kitchen, just before everyone wakes and the day begins it’s clamor. 

 

Bucky’s looking at Steve’s profile, and then he’s directly in front of him. His flesh hand reaches up, gently, hesitantly, to cup Steve’s cheek, and he leans in.

 

He’s close, so _close_ , and Steve can feel his breath warm on his face. Bucky’s eyes flicker between Steve’s eyes and lips. He’s not asthmatic anymore so Steve doesn’t really know why his breath is coming so fast and shallow, or why his cheeks are heating up or why there’s this coiled, tense feeling in his chest.

 

“Buck...” His voice is hoarse, damn it, and he really isn’t sure what to do, but thankfully Bucky knows.

 

Bucky leans in, pressing his lips against Steve’s hard. And Steve’s noise of surprise only lasts a moment before he’s closing his eyes and wending his hand through Bucky’s hair, kissing back just as fervently. 

 

It’s wonderful and quite late in coming but still perfectly timed, and they both wonder why they never did this before. 

 

When they pull apart they’re warm and tingly and their foreheads gently bump together. Both of Bucky’s hands are cupping Steve’s face now, the metal cool but not uncomfortable, but neither man pays too much attention.

 

Steve smiles, a smile full of fondness and relief and joy and love, and Bucky smiles right back at him.

 


End file.
